There are times when we feel like doing something a little bit crazy, just to feel alive, or at least, a little bit important.

In the past, whenever I’ve wanted to raise a lot of money very quickly for a worthy cause, the best way I’ve known how is to organise a team of crack musicians and put on a concert. I’m involved with a number of charities, but one that I’ve neglected a bit lately is Macmillan Cancer, and I’d thought that maybe it was time to stretch my secretarial muscles again. But then, a few days ago, I was on the tube and I saw an advert entitled “Shave or Style”, encouraging people to don a fabulous new “do”, or indeed, shave the lot off.

I figured it’s not really practicable to put on a concert at the moment (season ending, people going away), and so I’ve made the almost unbearably uncomfortable decision to go for the Big Shave, in honour, memory and support of all those people who don’t have that luxury of choice.

My hair is a large part of my identity, and I’ve always been proud of my ginger locks, so it’s going to be an uneasy time while I wait for it to grow back.

Please take a moment to click on the link here, and consider making a donation. Thank you very much indeed in advance xxx

https://www.shaveorstyle.org.uk/shavers/liz-franklin-kitchen/

It’s eighteen months since I left the ROH’s Jette Parker Young Artists Programme, and the learning curve that started back in 2009 is certainly still, well, curving.  With each new production I’m involved in, new lessons are learned and new observations made.  I suppose the biggest thing I’ve learned, which can ONLY be learned “on the job”, is how to preserve the voice during gruelling rehearsal periods, sometimes in less-than-ideal climates.

Having come somewhat later to this profession than some of my colleagues, I missed out on opportunities to learn these vital lessons in college – I hadn’t embarked on an opera course until I came to the JPYAP in 2009, and so making the transition from chain-smoking, beer-swilling chorister to fledgling international artist meant some radical changes in life-style had to be made (I quit smoking in 2004 – still working on the beer thing).

But I digress.

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Thirsty work

My first role after leaving the Programme was the title role in Aïda at the Teatro Municipal de Santiago de Chile – the excited echoes of “Baptism by Fire” still resound in my ears.  Being in the “second” cast, my schedule was less demanding than some of my “first” cast colleagues, and so I was able to pace myself quite comfortably during the rehearsal process.  I only had three performances in this role but, given that they were over just five days, I knew I had to be careful not to celebrate too much after my opening night – while an ice-cold cerveza might be exactly what you think you need after an international debut, your throat, and your Intendant, won’t necessarily respect you in the morning.

What I hadn’t experienced much during my time at ROH was the dehydrating effect of adrenalin on the vocal cords.  Added to which, Santiago is well-known for being one of the most polluted cities in the world, so with these factors working against me, plus my relative inexperience, I certainly felt the pressure on my two subsequent performances.

I discovered a similar dehydration problem when I arrived, the day after my final Santiago performance, in Chicago, where I was to cover the title role in Ariadne auf Naxos and sing Erste Dame in Die Zauberflöte.  These two roles, even when combined, aren’t as vocally demanding as Aïda, but still a great deal of care has to be taken when you’re singing in a dryer atmosphere than you’re accustomed to.

Lesson 1: hydration, hydration, hydration.  Use a humidifier and/or a nebuliser wherever you go.  Go to www.humidiflyer.com  and http://evergreen-nebulizers.co.uk/omron/microairu22.html?gclid=CPCu06SPjLUCFeTMtAodmF8ASg to check out a couple of fantastic travel accessories. A bottle of water must become your best friend.  And don’t worry about the weird looks you’ll get from your fellow passengers – you’ve been getting those since school.  Isn’t that why you do this job?

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Use well the interval

Several weeks after returning to Blighty, and after some very relaxing down-time, I set about organizing my personal schedule for the next few months.  It was going to be an easy-ish time for me: it was now March 2012, and I had a return trip to Santiago planned for my debut in the role of Tannhäuser’s Elisabeth in the July/August.  I knew that, upon my return I would be straight into rehearsals for ROH’s Der Ring des Nibelung, where I was singing a Valkyrie, a Norn, and covering Sieglinde, so I knew I needed to have those roles under my belt by the time I left for Santiago in July.  But it was fine, I thought, it’s March.  Four months.  PLENTY of time.

Then the phone rang.  Santiago calling.  They’d just lost their Lucrezia Borgia to a back injury and could I come to sing the role?  Rehearsals start in seven weeks.

Suddenly my diary transmogrified from a calm sea of tranquility to “Houston, we have a problem”.  Seven weeks till Lucrezia begins, six weeks on production in Santiago, two weeks return to England before a quick turn around back to Santiago for Tannhäuser and then the ROH Ring.  Seven weeks to learn three large roles and two small ones.

Long story short…

Lesson 2: There’s no such thing as “down time”.  Of course, give yourself adequate time to recover from jet-lag, etc, but get straight back into learning your next role.  And the one after that.  (If you don’t have a “next role” in the diary, how awesome – you get to pick your dream role and learn THAT!  www.imslp.com is an invaluable resource for finding scores on the go and, if you have an iPad, I recommend you download ForScore, so you can store, and mark up, your scores.)  You just never know when your free time can be snatched away from you.  (Of course, you can choose not to accept the jump-ins, but if you’re an adrenalin junkie like me, that’s not really an option.)

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Nota bene

So, with all of that out of the way, I entered the second year of my career.  It was now August 2012, and I felt like I was returning home triumphant, with four new roles under my belt, a few thousand air-miles collected and some valuable lessons learned.  Time to get my teeth into some serious Wagner.  And what a luxury: here I am, singing on stage with some of my all-time heroes: Tony Pappano, Bryn Terfel, Sir John Tomlinson, Susan Bullock, Sarah Connolly, Eva Maria Westbroek, Simon O’Neill, Keith Warner, and so many others too many to mention.  Suddenly I felt like I was back on the JPYAP – I get to study these stage giants, see how they interact with one another, how they use their bodies and their vocal techniques to express themselves.  I also learned a great deal from being a Valkyrie; being one of several sisters, running about with horse-skulls, Hojotohoing like there’s no tomorrow, it almost felt like I was back in chorus with the camaraderie and the private jokes.  What I really loved here was the chance to really get to know my peers – people say there’s so much rivalry and competition among singers, and you might think this would certainly be the case among eight women setting out on similar journeys.  But I found this very much NOT to be the case.  We swapped stories of our lives, learned about ourselves and our worries and, best of all, we became a support system for one another.  As Keith Warner said to me one day in the canteen, “The best thing about doing a Ring Cycle is how everyone comes together and becomes a family – you don’t get that in any other opera as much as you do with The Ring.”

Lesson 3: You never stop learning.  Take notes from your colleagues – ALL of them.  Find out what their warm-up techniques are.  Ask them how THEY cope with the stresses of the job, and how they look after their voices.  Almost all singers LOVE to talk about this stuff.  Read Joyce DiDonato’s blog: http://www.joycedidonato.com/blog-archive/

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Pace.  Pace.  My God!

And so, on to The Minotaur.  Oh, The Minotaur.  Ker: the shortest role of my career, and possibly the most challenging one. The role of the Ker is a very violent and physical one (likened by my colleagues to “Turandot condensed.  With PMT.  And on uppers”) … The tears, the swearwords, the voice-shredding coaching sessions that went into learning that role.  Oh yes, THIS one goes to 11.

In my first scene I have to throw myself against a couple of walls, leaping about wildly with a giant wing attached to my left arm (being very careful not to smash it into the faces of the sleeping Christine Rice and Sir John Tomlinson – apparently, that’s not allowed), before tugging fiercely at the arm of the First Innocent (the marvellous JPYA Susana Gaspar), sprawled on the floor post-rape, whose heart I’m about to rip out and devour.  All of this while trying to remember all the nuances of Sir Harrison Birtwistle’s complex score, and the notes he’d given me the night before (“Don’t forget, those semi-quaver triplets are supposed to be staccato, you know, like they do in all that bel canto repertoire.” “What, in the bit where I’m shaking Susana to pieces?  Ok, Harry, I’ll do my best.”).

I had decided in the very early stages of the rehearsals that the only way I was going to get through the next few weeks without losing my voice (and marbles) was to mark very gently while I learned the staging.  After the first couple of run-throughs, once I’d got a decent grip on the blocking, I thought I’d sing out, just once, at full volume, with the intention of returning to marking for the rest of the rehearsal period.  But I quickly discovered that the energy required to sing this role had quite an impact on the physicality I had brought to the role – I found myself terribly out of breath and pouring with sweat from the effort.  I realised that, by marking, I had been compromising too much, and so I knew I would have to sing full out for the rest of the rehearsal period, in order for my body to recalibrate to the demands of the role.

Singing a role like this requires special attention.  You have to be able to deliver these immensely complex musical rhythms and intervals, often leaping up 7ths and down 10ths, with the same accuracy and care as you would when singing Era Desso or Ritorna Vincitor.  You can’t simply scream a high C and then slam a middle E in full, growly chest voice (that’s what you might want the audience to think you’ve done, but if you ACTUALLY do that, you may as well have smoked 40 B&H). You have to figure out what your body is physically capable of doing while giving your vocal mechanism the space and care it needs to do its thing.

My approach here was to do exactly the same sort of warm-ups as I would for any other role; start quietly in the middle of the voice, and very slowly and with as much legato as possible, warm up either sides of the middle, until the whole range is warmed up.  Since I’m lucky enough to have a strong top to my voice, I pay more attention to the middle and lower registers during warm-ups.  Then, calmly, I hum (or, to be more specific, I “ng”) through my whole role, at pitch, sliding carefully between each interval.  This helps me to connect the different registers of the voice so that I can sing the role as a flowing piece of music, rather than what might seem like a hailstorm of complicated intervals.

And in between rehearsals and performances?  Lots of water, lots of sleep, and no booze.  Ok.  A little booze.  A girl’s gotta live.

Lesson 4: Learn what your physical and emotional limits are – by going right up to and beyond those limits, and then dialling back.  That can only come with preparation, practice, and experience.  And warm up properly.

That’s it for now – I’m off to drink a glass of water, learn an aria, read Joyce’s latest blog, and figure out how to sing Gloriana, upside-down, in a corset.

I’ve been reading lots of people’s Facebook statuses and having conversations with friends and colleagues about this topic quite a bit lately.  A huge number of us experience prolonged periods of self-doubt and anxiety when it comes to facing the advancement of our careers.  It usually creeps up when we’re about to go for an audition, or a performance, or even just updating our CVs and websites.

The very thought that you might stick your head above the parapet and be judged by a panel of experts – or an audience of Auntie Jean and Uncle Ken – can send the mind into a flurry of confusion, often resulting in sweaty palms, palpitations, and all manner of other anxiety-related symptoms.

It’s a fear that almost never goes away – I’ve spoken to dozens of singers at various stages in their careers, from those still in college to those with more than twenty years’ experience, and it’s same everywhere.  So, what causes it?

At this point I should say that I don’t have the answer – if I did I’d be a very wealthy person and wouldn’t have time to dedicate to my own anxieties, but I have a few thoughts, based on my own experiences and upbringing.

As a teenager, I wouldn’t say that I was lonely, but I was rather solitary in school – I didn’t have many friends, and spent a great deal of time hiding away in the music department.  While the other girls were learning how to kiss and put on make-up, I was playing various different instruments in brass bands, wind bands and orchestras.  I wasn’t very good at interacting with my peers at school because I had no idea who A-ha were, had no interest in Scott and Charlene’s relationship and was never going to be picked for any sports team.

Such was my lack of confidence in my abilities outside of music that I didn’t even want to TRY to fit in, for fear of being laughed at and rejected.  It’s safe to say that school was not a highlight of my life – I left with a small handful of GCSEs and a couple of A-levels, but I had no idea what I wanted to do.  I knew it would be music-related, but I wasn’t really prepared to work terribly hard, because I “knew” I would only be turned down.

It became a self-fulfilling prophecy.  Some ten years later and after countless “Thanks but no thanks” letters from music colleges, job interviews and opera companies, it’s no wonder my confidence was shot.  Added to which, in 2002, I underwent surgery on an eye which had been badly damaged in a childhood accident.  I had to wear an eye-patch for several months – the resulting self-consciousness made it even more difficult for me to find the courage to try for a stage career.  Eventually however, I found the balls to audition for a place at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama; after a year of which I spent a few years getting chorus work with Glyndebourne, English Touring Opera and Welsh National Opera.  These years were still difficult for me though because, much as I loved the music I was singing and the colleagues I was singing with, I really wanted to be up at the front of the stage.  But I still lacked the confidence to take it further – more than that, I had this overwhelming fear that “people” might think I was ridiculous to think that I might be good enough to try.  But this was all in my head – nobody had ACTUALLY said anything like that to me, it was my own paranoia.

A crucial turning point for me was in the middle of 2007 when I was singing as an extra chorus member with WNO: that’s when I first heard about Dennis O’Neill’s vocal academy in Cardiff (then the Cardiff International Academy of Voice, now the Wales International Academy of Voice).  I applied and was granted an audition, but, on the day of the audition, I began to doubt myself again.  I’d tried to warm up at home before going, but the warm-up had been really bad.  My confidence was long-gone and I thought to myself, “What the hell are you doing?  Who do you think you are?  You really think you can maintain a solo career?  What experience do you have?  NONE!  You’re ridiculous!”

I was about to pick up the phone to call CIAV to say I wasn’t coming.  But then a thought struck me – if I didn’t go to the audition, then the answer would be a DEFINITE “no”.  If I went, then it would only PROBABLY be a “no”.  I figured, what the hell, and went.

Dennis heard me, and offered me a place on the spot.  Who knew?!

Following an amazing year of discovery (both vocally and personally, as well as in terms of repertoire) I found the confidence to audition for the Jette Parker Young Artists Programme at Covent Garden.  Again though, the same old doubts crept in, the awful feelings of “What if they all just laugh at me?  Am I really up to this?  I’m still terribly inexperienced on stage.” were almost overwhelming – just as overwhelming, in fact, as the auditions themselves.  You can certainly imagine my joy and elation when I was accepted to the Programme!

Still the problems of confidence and doubt didn’t solve themselves.  In fact, they just got worse and worse – now the stakes were even higher, and I had much further to fall.  There were so many incredible artists, many with much more stage experience than me who HADN’T been accepted, so I knew I really had to prove myself.

One of the greatest things about being on the Programme though is the fact they offer you regular sessions with a therapist.  While this has until recently been thought of as a taboo subject, it isn’t any longer, and so I’m happy to talk about the virtues of therapy.  After two years on the Programme and many wonderful, as well as not-so-wonderful experiences, I felt that, at last, I was a confident woman on the verge of an international career, ready to tackle the world at large.  Which was just as well, as only two months after finishing the JPYAP I found myself in Chile, singing the title role in Aida!

Since then, I’ve tackled some great roles, Ariadne, Lucrezia Borgia, Elisabeth in Tannhäuser, and I’m currently now back at Covent Garden singing some lovely, juicy roles in the Ring Cycle!

Of course, I still get those moments of utter fear and panic – I still get freaked out whenever Tony Pappano’s in the room.  But you know what is the most comforting thing?  EVERYONE ELSE IS GOING THROUGH THE SAME THING!

It’s great to have the ability, finally, to admit these fears to my colleagues – it brings us closer together as friends, and it make us treat one another with a greater level of respect.

I’m chuckling to myself as I read this back, as it reminds me of a quote I once saw while trawling through Google for some inspiration.  It went something along the lines of this:

“Turn up, work hard, take what gets thrown at you.  In years to come, you’ll look back and it’ll all seem like a strategy.”